Anonymous - First training

Sarah, having been prised more out of her shell, would tickle his balls and cock with just her little finger, which she learned well to do, until he had a fine stand, his prepuce drawn back and his knob aglowing. Even so we monitored our own desires as our stepmother taught us to and would accept the males but once a week, which of occasion made me fret and want for more.

“You shall have more when you have tamed your own subjects,” I was told. “The males must not be spoiled, Clara, or they will take airs upon themselves.”

I birched Sarah sometimes and she would then respond by coursing the softened twigs across my own bottom until I came up to a fine heat. Such amusements never took place before the males, however, for it was not seemly for us so to de. Even so, they must have silently remarked the glowing heat of our bottoms when we were tapped or tupped or pistoned, or whatever our word might be for the evening. Sarah gradually grew silent when it was done to her and would lay her cheek sideways on a velvet cushion, her eyes wide with wonder as the shaft urged back and forth and only a gentle quivering of her bottom was to be seen. With the cock firm gliding in her she would come and breathe more quickly when she did so, her eyelashes fluttering prettily and her eyeballs rolling up.

“To feather your sweet pussies when you have the prick up your bottoms would be delicious, but you are accepted now as almost the same rank as I in the household and so must not be seen to be playthings,” our stepmother said, to my own disappointment at least for Sarah still obtained some hesitations. Seeing her apparently incurable in this respect, our stepmother paid her the curious compliment of blindfolding her when, instead of upping her bottom and thus keeping her expression mostly hid, she was put on her back to them which-if our stepmama was feeling mischievous-might be in the drawing room upon a tigerskin. To Tim or Papa or Robert it was a sign of uncaring that she was not put out by whoever’s prick she received, though that was not really the reason, but it sufficed to allay their thoughts and so kept her “queenly” in their eyes.

Once or twice our stepmother would make Sarah tipple heartily before putting her down, which was always done in the absence of males, for it was to be seen by them that everything she did was voluntary. My sister would then be arranged prettily on the tigerskin with her skirt wreathed up and most neatly fanned out on either side of her hips. Her bush was dark and showed beautifully against her snow-white belly. While she lay there with the blindfold on, our stepmother would unbutton Sarah’s corsage so that her firmly jellied tits came into view, the nipples then being teased to fiery points. Sarah would then moan and toss for in the meanwhile I, taking a soft brush, would fluff up her mass of pubic hairs and so tickle her with the bristles at the same time. Becoming passionate, she would seek our mouths, but these were refused.

“All your desires must bubble on the cock,” she would be told. Thus all her will was required to hold herself still in readiness and anticipation when the male was led in, by which time Sarah’s knees were flexed and her thighs straddled so that the pouting of her cuntlips was well in view and glistening not a little from our endeavours. Then the male would be put down on her, he being ever restrained to thread her well and thoroughly until her bush was well creamed with his come and she would lie languid and satisfied, being allowed her own time in which to get up.

I had taken at this time to writing thoughts down on paper. Not only thoughts, for I attempted also to describe such “exercises” as above, and found myself a muff at it, or so I thought.

“Show me what you have written,” my stepmother asked once when I complained to her of my difficulties. She then sat reading earnestly such a scene as I have here described, with much bumping of Sarah’s bottom on the floor and the sweet but breathless look on her face. “It is not so bad as you think,” my stepmother concluded at the end of three full pages, “for what you are attempting even the greatest of writers have failed in, which is to say how to describe even the conjunction of two pairs of lips or the first meeting of the prick to the cunny’s mouth. Such things escape the pen as oil does water. Fret about it not. You have come within good measure of it.” Thereat she laughed and added, “I see you have described the crest of your Papa’s cock as like a garden bulb nosing into loam-that is most amusing! The desperations of the writer are even greater than those of the painter, believe me, for words do not have colour and are flat. Shall you write more?”

I nodded, for I was a little flattered by her attentions and by her question which plainly directed me to proceed. She then bid me write in chapters and not endlessly-“all at a gabble,” as she said-and hence I did and so have built my narrative upon those early efforts.

At this time-so much have I condensed events in this chapter, not wishing to repeat myself-I had reached the age of seventeen and so my titties and my bottom, not to say my pouting slit, were truly worthier of all attentions. My stepmother had not added, however, to our entourage, saying that to do so would encourage laziness in myself and Sarah.

“I could bring men and maidens to you both, but I will not, for then you would be like fledgling birds forever feeding from their mother’s mouth and learning not to fly,” she told us one day, adding that she meant to hold a garden party, and so closely did she run her sentences together that I knew there to be a meaning in it. No sooner had I thought this than she went on: “The guests will be varied but carefully chosen. There will be no merriments, but you are to observe them closely. The rest I leave to you.”

“Shall we have some of them to stay, then?” Sarah asked carelessly.

“Most certainly not. Not, at least, until you have them trained. You must go afield in your endeavours.”

“Oh, I could not!” my sister exclaimed, “I would be too shy.”

“Would you really, Miss? You were not too shy to up your skirts last night. You must pay a penance, Sarah, for that remark and you will not be blindfolded on your next occasion but will gaze steadily into the eyes of your jockey the while he rides you. I will take no comment on that from you and no rebellions. Close your eyes but once and I will birch you afterwards until you really howl. That is understood?”

“Yes-oh, perfectly,” Sarah exclaimed, her face aflame, and rushed upstairs.

“There is no taming of her, Clara, but no matter. She must be driven more to boldness and will be so, for she ever tries to hide behind my skirts.”

“Well, she will come to it,” I replied vaguely, for my mind was rather on future events than a repetition of present ones and so I looked forward to the garden party muchly. Of my stepmother’s skill in compiling the guest list I will say this-that she chose with great cunning so that while there were many dullards among the arrivals there were a handful who offered what might be called possibilities. These, as came to me during a pleasant afternoon among the water ices, the strawberries and cream, comprised a young married couple of superior mien, and the local Vicar, his brother and his sister.

Of the married couple, the young woman was called Jennifer, or to give her her full names, Jennifer de Vere Lacey. She was patrician in features, of just above middling height and of some twenty-four years. Her figure was splendid, adorned as it was in a fashionable grey silk dress set off by a superb hat with feathers, flowers and ribbons. The buttons of her corsage spanned tightly down between her fulsome tits and I had a true mischief to see her eyes if of a sudden she were seized and the buttons were undone. As to her husband, he was foppish in appearance with a slightly drooping moustache and the clear skin of a woman. He shared her slenderness which boded well for his appearance when naked. Seeing me appraise them, my stepmother sidled up to me where I stood in the background beneath an elm tree and murmured, “Married couples can be quite fun, Clara.”